My Damsel Breathes Fire
by Stand In Girl
Summary: Rachel was his type. Olivia transcended the label. Season One, PO.


**Title:** My Damsel Breathes Fire  
**Summary:** Rachel was his type. Olivia transcended the label.  
**Setting:** Set after _Unleashed_ in Season 1.  
**Note:** I was cleaning out my files and found this. I re-read it, liked it, finished it, and here we are. A little flashback to simpler times, when all we had to worry about was how much Peter Bishop flirted with Rachel Dunham.

**My Damsel Breathes Fire  
**

Peter Bishop had a weakness for damsels.

He couldn't help it. He figured he had a genetic flaw somewhere between his penchant for running and his nose for trouble. All a pretty girl had to do was bat her eyelashes, cry a little and tell him her particular brand of captivity. An abusive boyfriend, a drug addiction, an overbearing father—he'd heard dozens by now.

After that he'd bust in, IQ diminishing and fists swinging, and usually he came out on top. Although, there was that one time in Iraq and that other time in Florida—come to think of it, there were a lot of times he _didn't_ come out on top. He couldn't even go _back_ to Florida.

He might not have gotten into so much trouble if there hadn't always been a distressed girl somewhere in the background, waving her arms and begging to be saved. Not that he regretted helping them, but it was a certain kind of torture to always go for the troubled types.

Rachel Dunham was the troubled type. With a divorce in progress, a nasty custody battle and a seven year old daughter, everything about Rachel called out for help. She was just the kind of woman Peter always fell over himself for; the kind in need of shelter and a strong shoulder or two. It didn't hurt that she was light and fun and beautiful, either. Rachel was fragile and chaotic, like a blossom caught in the wind.

Olivia Dunham was the exact opposite. If Rachel was the flower, Olivia was the wind. Strong and sure and grounded, everything about Olivia said strength. She was tougher than anyone he had ever met, and she was more driven and focused than Peter had ever learned to be. Perhaps _he_ was the wind and she was the rock—that metaphor suited her better.

Not that she wasn't beautiful. She didn't have Rachel's softness, but she had her own still beauty. Sometimes it hit Peter unexpectedly, and he nearly lost himself in looking at her. She was so reserved that she should have seemed cold, but she never did. Her light was soft, but it wasn't dimmed, and it always made him long for more.

Rachel was his type. Olivia transcended the label. In his disjointed life, Olivia was the only thing that had ever managed to focus him. And now, thanks to her, he had a father and some semblance of a life. Not a _normal_ one, naturally, but more than just people and places and a blur of scenery out a plane window.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Peter smiled at Olivia, sure he had stared at her a little too long. "I think they're worth more."

Her smile was faint, just a slight curve of her lips, but he liked it. "That depends."

"On?"

"What's on your mind."

"I was thinking how damn happy I am to be done with this case. And that I'm glad Charlie pulled through."

She nodded and sat down beside him at the lab table, and he wished it was a bar and her hair was down. "Me too."

Woman of few words, this Olivia Dunham. "So, it appears we have some time to kill until the next problem comes along. Any big plans?"

She laughed, and he appreciated the sight. "Does sleep count?"

"Of course. But beware—I might decide to give you a little payback for always waking me up."

"Oh, really? You'll need a lightbulb changed at two in the morning?"

"I wouldn't call you for a lightbulb."

He meant it as a joke, but it came picked up some extra meaning on the way out and now the innuendo hung there between them. She looked down, her blonde ponytail swinging over her left shoulder. She was so sensitive to this kind of thing—maybe even scared of it. He wished the line didn't have to be drawn so carefully, because Peter Bishop was terrible at maintaining boundaries.

"The next time Walter is baking a pie naked, I'll be sure to call you," he added, and it helped. She looked up again and wrinkled her nose, and it was so absurdly cute he wanted to kiss her.

"You could always ask Rachel."

He was sure she meant it as a joke, but it picked up some extra meaning on the way out and now the faint accusation hung there between them. He let the moment stretch out and take shape, because Olivia being jealous was possibly the best thing that had happened to him this week.

"Do you like her?"

He hadn't expected that. Directness was something Olivia employed in every aspect of her life—every aspect but one. He didn't know how to answer, because he did like Rachel Dunham. He just had no intention of trying to save her.

"What's not to like? She's great, and Ella's the sweetest—"

"Peter," Olivia interrupted. She gave him that look, the one that said she was afraid. It didn't cry out for comfort, the look; it was more like a statement. _I'm afraid, but I will handle this crisis._ "Rachel and Ella have been through so much, and they're just starting to get their lives together again."

Anger snaked to life in his chest. "What are you saying?"

"Peter, you're wonderful," she said, and his pride almost distracted him. _She thinks I'm wonderful._ "But Rachel and Ella need someone... stable. Steady."

He crossed his arm, fingers wrapping around either tricep. "You think I'm not steady?"

She looked at him like he was an idiot. "And how is that business in Iraq?"

"I'm starting to think it was less dangerous than my business here."

She looked down at her hands, which were fidgeting with the edges of her files. She was always carrying around files, thick manila folders with papers sticking out over the top. He knew he had made her uncomfortable, and he regretted it.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to offend you." she said. Then she looked up, and there was steel in her olive eyes. "But I don't think you and my sister would be a very good idea."

He shrugged. The fight was there in him, but he didn't want to set it loose it on her. "Well, it's a good thing I never had any intention of dating your sister."

The line of her shoulders sank about an inch, and her hands went still around her files. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry if I—"

"Olivia, don't. It's not a problem."

He wanted to say something else, something that wasn't an innuendo or a barely-there suggestion—something real. But for all her strength and all his brashness, their relationship was delicate. He wasn't accustomed to treading lightly, but he couldn't risk running her off. She was the only one he couldn't risk running off.

"You know, if you ever need help remembering a song, you could always call me," she said. She had stopped fidgeting completely; her hands and eyes were still. "I have a pretty good memory."

She surprised him. She always did, and he kind of loved that about her. Now he wondered if he hadn't been too careful—if maybe she wanted him to cross their line in the sand. "I'll remember that."

"Good," she answered. "You want to get a drink or something?"

He stayed silent for a second, just one second. Then he said, "I've been waiting all night for you to ask me that," and she grinned at him, one of those rare, perfect grins that opened up like flower petals.

No, Olivia Dunham did not need saving. She didn't need anyone to come into her life to fight away all the monsters, but he thought he was starting to understand what she did need: a partner. Someone she could trust, who would protect her without trying to save her. Someone who would let her protect him too.

"Peter?"

She was shrugging into her coat and holding his out to him. He grabbed it from her.

"So where to?" he asked.

She smiled again. "I know the perfect place."


End file.
